


Yogi and Reggie's State-Building Adventure

by FriedensPanzer



Category: Far Cry 4
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Fashion & Couture, Gen, Other, Propaganda, Reconciliation, Recreational Drug Use, factionalism, honey badgers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-12 01:52:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3339380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriedensPanzer/pseuds/FriedensPanzer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set immediately after the events of the Far Cry 4, in the wake of Pagan's abdication. Is there any hope of re-building, or even stabilizing Kyrat? A multi-chapter fic of  reconciliation efforts, statuary, bureaucratic wrangling, honey badgers, historical revisionism, factionalism, unexpected troubles, terrible ideas and many stoned digressions. Featuring Ajay, Yogi, Reggie and...the Goat, of all people.<br/>Comedy-ish: heavy matters, handled with a light touch for the most part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Delinquent Advisors

_Where do you go, when all is lost and won, and yours is the kingdom?_

_Home._

_And where is home?_

The stone walls of the Ghale family homestead, venerable with moss, cast long blue shadows in the cold morning light. So did the garish tent the two that wouldn’t leave had set up in the front yard. Suddenly, the impossibility of evicting Yogi and Reggie was the least of Ajay’s problems. He dawdled for a moment, gave an involuntary shudder at everything and nothing in particular, and headed for the tent.

Inside, a pile of brightly coloured blankets and embroidered curtains snored gently. Ajay nudged it with his boot, and immediately felt unbefittingly, un-despotically sheepish. The colourful mound continued to snore. Ajay reminded himself that he’s king now, which didn’t make much difference, stared at the pile some more, and nudged it again. The pile grumbled, shifted, and raised twin pashmina-wrapped, blinking heads to behold it’s new ruler. The heads looked unimpressed.

“The King is dead! Long live the King!” Yogi, the head on the left, suddenly crowed.

“Not quite.”

“Oh… So, you’re not king? Or Pagan’s not dead?”

“It’s complicated…”

The two heads turned to look at each other, and burst out laughing.

“Status update!” Reggie, the dark head on the right, finally managed to exhale between merry burbles.

“Okay, man. So, he’s alive. Did you hug your uncle before he left?”

“Wait a moment…What?”

“What? He’s been packing his figurative suitcases for months, I knew he was up to something!”

“Not that. The… _uncle_ part. You knew?”

“What do you think we do here, man? Sit around getting stoned all day? I mean, that too. But we don’t do that in a vacuum neither, do we Yogi?”

“Neither literally nor figuratively, no.”

“Right.”

“Do you seriously think no one but you ever visited us to smoke the good shit? And anyway, what with your dad’s journal being so inexplicably scattered all over the place, and the fact that the bored and inebriated will talk? And where, may I ask you, do the bored go to be inebriated in the greatest, wisest, most unassuming company around here?”

“And humble” Ajay smiled, despite himself “And humble, too.”

“Oh yeah. Salt of the earth, us! So, what’s the plan, chief?”

Ajay groaned inwardly “Good question.”

“But perhaps one best left for later? Everyone will be onto you about it soon enough, your highly majestic excellence.”

“And did you, in fact, hug your uncle?”

“Can’t say I did. He took off while I was… Wait, how much _do_ you know?”

“Your dad was a fruitcake, your mom shot him, but only after he killed your kid sister, Pagan is your uncle. No secret, really, but he had some issues, hanging around that mausoleum, never going in. Noore hated her job, Pagan and basically everyone, Paul had issues, Sabal and Amita had issues, you have issues, and the Goat, oh my god, the Goat has issues.”

“He does. Frustrated artisan, that one. Kept petitioning Pagan to open the borders and establish some sort of legit tourist industry so he could sell his trinkets. Used to come here all the time and bitch and moan ‘bout how no one appreciated traditional woodwork anymore. Tried to get a job as interior decorator to the palace, but his erstwhile highness found folk art somewhat tacky…”

“Got a complex, that guy.”

Ajay stared unblinkingly at the twin-headed blanket burrito.

“Come to think on it, not that complex, really. His gripe makes as much sense as anyone else's around here, and his coping strategy was the same as everyone else's minus the picking a side part. Sounds just like this here merry trio of malevolent misfits, present company excluded, your majesty. I mean he's not killed a tenth the people the three of us here have on average.”

“I haven't killed anyone.” Reggie threw in.

“Nor have I.”

Ajay continued to stare at the two who now stared flippantly back.

“You guys are serious?” he said at last. “You know the Goat? You've met him?”

“Sure we have. Everything we own made of wood or ivory is his handiwork. Looking impressed is payment enough these days. Brought us a new opium pipe yesterday, and he didn't take to the idea of our being put out of commission as the stewards of the old homestead, what with it containing the largest single collection of his work, curated by yours humbly and all, but I daresay the interest you've been taking in his masks might put you in his better stead, not to mention the possibility of your making him an offer your uncle neglected to extend.”

“There you go again with this _uncle_ thing. You're saying my father, Mohan, and Pagan were brothers? And not my mom and Pagan I hope.”

“Oh, nah. Not your mom’s brother, he’s from Honkers originally, as you know by now. She’s, well, _was_ as Kyrati as, uhh… honey badgers?”

“And nice things” Yogi cut in “Nice-er things, at any rate. Like… Uh. As Kyrati as top buds and Himalayan honey and uh... Fancy embroideries?”

Yogi settled for nodding sagely.

“So, not literally your uncle, man. It’s just easier on the ol’ gob than could-have-been-your-stepdad-if-it-weren’t-for-your-actual-dad-ruining-everything-by-killing-your-kid-sister-and-your-mom-leaving-the-country-but-still-kinda-almost-a-relative-seeing-as-you’re-his-heir-and-all. Bit of a mouthful, that.” Reggie blew the tasselled fringe of the pashmina out of his eyes thoughtfully and made to get up.

“Ah, so the plot thins…”

Reggie froze half way to standing, leaving the blankets to quietly slide down his legs. Yogi, his eyebrows straining incredulously towards his receding hairline, eventually managed “Did you just make a joke?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything. A time for every something and the other thing and all that. Ecclesiastes.”

Reggie rolled his eyes, kicked the blankets away from his feet, and made for the great outdoors.

“And you’re not keeping the house. And I’m not hiring the Goat to do…whatever he does. When he’s not murdering people.”

“Your sulking highness, Ah-jay Gah-lay, is missing a prime opportunity here. And I don’t know that you can afford that right now, what with people to get on side and body counts to lower and Amita and Sabal both being suspiciously dead lately.”

“What’s your idea, then?”

“Well…” Reggie, one relieved sigh later, stuck his head back in through the tent flap. “We’ve not been idle.”

“Oh no, not _us_. We’ve been _thinkin_ ’.”

“An we’ve come to the conclusion that you’ve got a bit of hiring to do. Us, as your trusty and trustworthy…”

“ _Trust_ worthy?”

“Well, what? We haven’t killed you so far, right?”

“So, as I was saying…”

“As _we_ was saying.”

“Right. As we was saying. You hire us as your trusty advisors, because so far you’ve made a bit of a hash of things. And you’re not going to have any subjects left if this unrest and killing each other business keeps going on among them. You’re pretty much a Malthusian scourge all in your own right, son of Mohan or no.”

“And you hire the Goat.”

“Why?”

“Well, they say a statue says a bunch of stuff. A picture’s worth a thousand words and all that.”

“That’s just over a page in 12 point font, and irrelevant. Your point?”

“Well, it’s 3D, see? So a cubic page of text is, like, what’s that? One line is how may words long?”

“No, you count the lines instead, as if, like, the words were the columns and the lines were rows, but the columns vary more than the rows because…”

“It’s just a thousand thousand, so a million words and no more relevant.”

“The point is, no one’s going to take kindly to Amita and Sabal being dead by your hand. Doesn’t matter that you’ve saved a whole bunch of arses from being enslaved or executed for heresy or married off at age six. They had stalwart followers who would have been more than happy to kill each other if told, and they won’t be too impressed with you and the ‘So, I shot Sabal because Amita told me to, then I shot Amita because it transpires she’s nuts too’ schtick.”

“So what you do is you tell a better story. Better than, ‘Hi, I’m the great and fabled Ah-jay Gah-lay and I just shot both faction leaders because we disagreed on the nitty-gritty of policy’ because otherwise, you might just end up great and fabled and joining those two in the choir invisible.”

“Now, what did we learn from your dad?”

“Just for clarity, Mohan, right? You haven’t come up with another misleading shorthand for Pagan?”

“Mohan, yeah. Was a bit of a cockup when it comes down to it, right? What’s his saving grace?”

“He’s… dead?”

“That a boy! Dead as a doorknob. Dead as Darpan, for that matter. And…”

“Everybody loves a martyr!”

“Shut up, Donald, I was going to say that anyhow. Have the fucking decency not to interject.”

“Well, you were taking your time about getting to it! And it’s Yogi, you cunt.” Yogi turned away sulkily, thought better of it, and seized on the opportunity to continue where Reggie left off:

“So the dead don’t exactly go around telling their own stories, right? Well, minus the inexplicable scattering-their-papers-all-over-the-shop folk seem apt to do around here.”

“You want me to lie about how they died?”

“Well, not lie exactly. Not _lie_ -lie. Just change the some details, some whereabouts. Or better yet, just keep doing that taciturn thing you’re doing and let people come to their own conclusions. And to help them come to the least unhelpful conclusions, you hire the Goat.”

“Get him to carve you a nice, big, official-looking statue. Soothe the poor man’s ego a bit, and placate the Banashur-hugging Sabalists with some traditional art while you’re at it. Show how Kyrati you are, that you’re with it, and that _they_ were _with_ _you_ to the last breath. Just, y’know. Had the misfortune to die on the way to storming that mountain stronghold. Look heartbroken a bit while you’re at it.”

“And you suppose he might stop with the murdering business?”

“God, yes. What did we tell you? The guy just wants to carve wood and make a rupee or a thousand from it.”

Ajay, being Ajay, sat looking pensive for a while. Reggie fetched a chopping bowl and started macerating the contents with scissors like his life depended on it. Yogi twiddled his thumbs quietly, whistling what sounded suspiciously like the Telugu version of “Thriller”.

“ All right. Done. But the pair of you look hardly advisory. More delinquent really, which you _are_. How am I going to take you anywhere?”

“Oh, you can trust us not to spike the punch. Heh. Hehhh. But this does bring us to the problem of tailoring. Bit of diplomacy to be done there, but I don’t even want to think about the fashionista war Pagan’s left you in the middle of without a spliff in my hand. Stressful shit, man, save that one for later.”

“I think we’ve got bigger fish to fry, guys.”

“Trust us, you don’t want to fuck with Mumu Chiffon. Or that other lady.”

“We have a blood-sports arena operating in the middle of the country, in some kind of fucked-up memorial of Noore Najjar, who wanted less fucking bloodshed, not more! No functional hospitals and thousands of maimed! Pagan’s drug cartel buddies wondering where their next shipment went! Amitanists, Sabalists, and Loyalists to reconcile, new factions to nip in the bud and another fucking war to prevent! And you’re telling me I have to worry about a _divergence of sartorial taste?_ ”

“Whoa, settle down there, buddy!” Reggie waved his hands, still holding bowl and scissors, in a vaguely conciliatory manner “You brought it up, anyway. Trust us, you’ll have to deal with it, eventually. As for Noore and the hospitals? Well, what are you still doing here? Her reports, which uncle Min was so affronted by, are still around. See what you can do about getting them publicized more widely. And call up the red cross, for Pete’s sakes, you’re king now. “Hello guys, my country just came out of a century of civil war, we need a wee bit o’ help. Yes, the old king is gone. No, we won’t shoot down your helicopters this time. Promise!” Hop on that gyrocopter and bugger off north – you have a whole palace to lay claim to, phone calls to make, hobnobbing to do. And one mad tailor to comfort, as you’ll see soon enough – if Sarnai hasn’t burned the whole place down, torn out all her hair, or topped herself in a rage yet.”

“Sarnai?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

“Right. So, advisors. We’re going to be trying to assemble a parliament, right?”

“That a boy. Constitution to pen, youtube videos to shoot, red cross to suck up to. You’ll be busy. No breakfast spliff for you.”

Ajay sighed and got to his feet. Made for the tent flap. Stopped, turned around.

“Oh. And guys. Remember that conversation you were having about whether “embowel” is a word, when I first met you?”

“Yeah?” Reggie looked up from licking a rolling paper which looked suspiciously like a yellowed fragment of map.

“Well, does feeding someone haggis count?” Ajay tried a smile “I mean, that’s putting bowel into an intact torso, right? ‘Cause Haggis is made of bowel…”

Two pairs of eyes blinked in cringing confusion.

 “Stick to the taciturn thing” Yogi offered after a long moment “funny isn’t your strong suit.”

Outside, the sky had brightened. A new day had well and truly started.

 

 


	2. The Jacket and #thedress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ajay's efforts continue. Sartorial dramas of every stripe occur along the way.

No great change happens overnight. The radio towers, like so many bells, rang out with news of the deposition of Pagan Min, with summons for submissions from regional representatives for the new parliament and volunteers for public works, with pleas for peace “at least for now, until we work things out”. The clanging clamour of promised change ran from mountain slopes to valleys, bloggers’ keyboards rattled, and the first reluctant choppers piloted by aid workers spun their props in the stark blue skies. So far, the promise of the new ruler had held out, and none had been shot down. So far. People bided their time, listening out warily for news and gossip. No one had laid aside their yellows and their reds just yet, but guns stayed holstered, by and large.

And what goes for country, goes for individual just as well. Ajay, dressed just as he had always been, strode with as much purpose as he could muster from meeting to appointment to interview, though in his mind he scurried more than strode. Sudden hiatus, if not true peace, brought as much dread as it did promise. At least uncertain futures held memory at bay.

By force of habit as much as of foresight, he still carried his radio, all channels open. And it did not fail to break the silence now, as he walked to what he still struggled to call his “office”. Mumu Chiffon’s voice chirruped brightly from amidst the static “Did you miss me, Ajay?”

“Mister Chiffon?”

“Oh yes. Yes indeed! Why so surprised?”

“I half-suspected you were dead, or at best sneaking away in a goat caravan. I’d been told otherwise, but… can’t say it was easy to believe. The note, the blood…”

“Oh _that_ little bit of silliness? I admit, it was all a bit dramatic – but I am an artist, after all, and was a persecuted one! Do you really expect me to convey the gravity of my plight in less certain terms? God, boy, you’re fierce, but so literal-minded!”

“But the blood?”

“Ah, well. _That_ was from making the goat costume – and a fine one at that, for the rushed job it was. For sneaking out in the goat caravan, you’ll recall? As it happens, I killed the last wild goat in Kyrat making that piece – I fancy it’ll be a priceless item once the peerlessness of my reputation is established! Also, obviously, no more goats, no more goat caravans. Hence I am still at liberty to continue our repartee.”

“Right.”

“Anyhow. We’ve more important matters to attend to now. I hear you’re king! Congratulations! Oh, I’m _so_ taken with what you’re doing with your P.R. campaign. Posting that address - about your taking over as head of state, the call for peace, hopes of democracy and all, on the very same YouTube channel as your GoBro stunt footage! Clever boy, you’ve gone viral – oh, that rugged, weary and unshaven countenance! That tattered _jacket_! Your hand resting on the hilt of your kukri as you spoke – the camera loved it! You’re a media darling in the making.”

“Uh, thankyou?” Ajay managed.

“But you do realize you can’t carry on like this, yes? That image was right for the moment, and that moment has passed. It spoke of struggle, and now – _now_ you must speak of stability, of sobriety and strength, with every inch of your presence. My friend, what you need _now_ is a fine suit!” Mumu could be heard clapping his hands together in elation at the thought.

“So, just to be clear. You’re still in Kyrat?”

“Of course I am. What an opportunity – to place my mark on you even as you place yours on the entire region. I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

“Is this really that urgent, mister Chiffon?  The representatives-elect will arrive to talk over administrative regions and voting any day now. I have a conference with the Red Cross later tonight, a blood-sports arena to explain away…”

“More urgent than you could imagine! You must confirm me as your tailor-in-chief. As soon, indeed, as _now_ as possible.”

“I thought you had plans of making your name elsewhere… And Pagan had a tailor that stepped in after you and he, uh, fell out, no?”

“Oh, _her_ ” Mumu’s tone suddenly lost all warmth “You cannot trust _her_. She is mad. Impetuous and mad. Uncompromising in the worst of ways!”

“Sarnai, right?”

“I trust you haven’t met her yet.”

“No. I’ve had hold of the palace for a week now, I’ve met most of the surviving staff.”

“That’d be just like her. She’s probably still sitting in my erstwhile sewing room, usurpress that she is, brooding, scheming, plotting… _sewing_.” Mumu intoned ominously.

“I see.”

“Oh, you’ve seen nothing yet, my friend! Return me to my throne, now that you have claimed yours, resolve this matter, only then _, then_ will you truly see. I have many marvels in store, so stay fierce now!” Mumu cut the connection abruptly.

Ajay stood rooted in place for a moment. Scratched the back of his head. Turned on his heel and, pocketing the radio, set off in search of this much-sought-after sewing room. It did not take him long to find it. A few doors from formerly Pagan’s - now his own - lavishly over-decorated office, a narrow hallway led to a flight of steps. At the top of these, a surprisingly austere door. _Trust Pagan to keep his outfitter so close at hand. Vain, paranoid, controlling bastard._ He found himself smiling fondly at the thought.

Ajay hesitated before the door, half-sheepish and half-wary. Whatever lay beyond it sounded by all accounts like a force to be reckoned with, or at any rate handled with caution. Then, shaking his head and reminding himself for the umpteenth time that day that he is _king_ now - feared, revered and generally not to be messed with - pushed it quietly open.

Fabrics, rolls upon rolls of them, lined the shelves, littered the floor in half-unfurled shimmerant piles. On the far wall, a jacket bloomed with embroidered peonies the colour of a blushing sunset. Only eventually did Ajay notice the scrawny little woman sitting by the blossoming garment, seemingly unaware of his presence, regarding her handiwork.

She didn’t seem very imposing.

“So, you’re the tailor then, I take it?”

The woman looked over her shoulder with dark, narrowed eyes. Turned to face the king, aged hands folded primly in her lap. She sighed. Ajay noticed that her face was puffy, full of recent crying and empty of sleep.

“That damn fool boy. Left me here, took off without so much as a proper goodbye. Didn’t even wait for my last work to be completed before deciding all _his_ work here is done, and he’ll be off now. And I was so close to changing his mind about those awful shirt collars, too – it’s no good, at his age, to be wearing such sharp angles – they age one terribly, and this time of his, and this country’s, life calls for a softer line.” Sarnai heaved a sigh.

Ajay did his best not to boggle at hearing the erstwhile king referred to as a “damn fool boy”.

The woman continued unperturbed, as though she was addressing an empty room, “Is this what I smuggled myself all those borders for? Out of Mongolia, through China and Nepal, all the way to this place? You’d think that’d earn you a little appreciation – not like he even had anyone to fill the role once he and Mumu fell out!”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to fill me in on what happened there.”

“Well, you might notice Pagan was rather fond of his rhino horn tea – but where others would simply harvest the horn until no rhinos were left, he took it upon himself to set up a breeding programme. Fancied himself a bit of a conservationist, he did – in his own way, of course. ‘The Marie Antoinette of Tigers’, they called him. Don’t suppose you’ve seen the signs along the border? ‘Let Them Eat Humans’? I guess you can see where he and Mumu diverged in their philosophies. You should read Chiffon’s manifesto, ‘The Human Mandala’. Grim.”

Ajay looked vaguely stumped. “But what about all that stuff in King Min’s guide to Kyrat?”

“Well, he was a bit of a favouritist. And had an odd sense of humour. I’m not sure how literally you’re meant to take any of it. I’m not sure what the last straw was, the jacket fringed with Yeti eyelashes or just Mumu’s being hell-bent on hunting down the oldest and most unique specimens of every species. I followed the whole debacle on Pagan’s twitter, you see – always thought he had the potential to become something of a fashion icon, as he clearly recognised a good silhouette when he saw one. That man, he wore unique garments fearlessly.”

“So, you thought you’d fill the vacan- Wait. Yeti?”

“The Himalayan Giant Loris. Eyelashes almost a foot long. Gone now.”

“So, yeah. You thought you’ve fill the vacancy?” Ajay prompted, still struggling to wrap his head around the notion of _Pagan Min, conservationist._ No attempt to wrap his head around a yeti would be made just yet.

“I did indeed. I’m sixty-five this year. So about a year ago, I was watching this drama unfold in my twitter feed from my apartment in Ulan Bataar, and I thought to myself: My son is all grown up, with kids of his own. My parents are departed. And I’ve made it past sixty – surely a woman my age should no longer feel beholden to anyone’s opinion. All my life I’ve done what’s asked of me. I decided I’m done. And I was done. And now, I’m here. And I’m not _leaving_. I’d sooner see the place burn to the ground.” Sarnai’s eyes narrowed still further in her broad, weathered face.

Ajay resisted the urge to flinch from the withering glare. “I wasn’t asking you to leave. But you should know, Mumu is still around.”

Sarnai’s brow furrowed “Great. More suits. Just what this place needs! More sharp suits. That man has a fixation with military style! It’s like Hugo Boss with fur-trimmed pouches! Mark my words – he’ll have you wearing shoulder boards, and epaulettes, and probably some kind of _plumed helmet_ if he can – he has some odd ideas about peacetime imagery! You see, I’d almost swayed Pagan, I like to think, towards a softer line. I told him, time and time again – let your clothes speak of peace, of plenty – and poof! The civil war will be forgotten.”

“Er. I’m not sure it quite works like that.”

Sarnai continued to glower quietly.

“But then again, I’m no expert in these matters.” Ajay added hastily, before stammering a more regal amendment. “I mean, of course I have some idea, but it’s always wise to be open to advice.”

Sarnai’s glare softened after a pause, and she took up a selection of wide iridescent silk swatches and reached up to drape a couple over Ajay’s shoulders.

“Good.” She said, “Then I will begin by advising you to dispense with these harsh block colours and piping. You may not have the uncompromising edges of Pagan’s striking silhouette, but this colour scheme of yours has the same puerile effect of childish defiance.”

Ajay backed away, stripping the cloth swatches from where Sarnai had tried to conceal his evidently offensive jacket, and proffered them emphatically back to her.

“Wait, nothing’s official yet. I don’t have or need a court tailor right now and I like this jacket. It’ll do for now. There are other things that have to be dealt with before we talk about, you know, ratifying your appointment to office.”

“Don’t be naïve, boy. Our first priority is preventing the incipient outbreak of the next civil war, and the clarity your jacket purports is dangerously alienating. There is no clarity here, and no one must be allowed to imagine that there is some exigency calling for the course of action that has become habitual.”

“What are you talking about? Alienating? If any goddamn textiles are going to start the next war it’ll be these shiny headtrips.” Ajay sputtered, sweeping his arm across the bolts and piles of embroidered cloth, “You’re on twitter; haven’t you seen how divisive an ambiguously coloured article of clothing can be? People in countries that haven’t spent the past century in a constant sequence of civil wars are coming to blows over whether _The Dress_ is blue and black or white and gold!”

Sarnai sighed and shook her head, and stepped towards Ajay, saying, “You need to listen to the next thing I tell you and not interrupt. Some of the bigoted thugs of the Golden Path took issue with Pagan being a foreigner, but you will see how quickly they forget having been unified by that, and the Kirat turn on the Chhetri, and the Gurung, and the Newar; and even the Limbu and Sunwar fight over who are the true Kirat; and everyone starts killing the Sherpas and the Chepang again. You are a native born son of Kyrat, but you will not find it as much to your advantage as Pagan found it to his detriment, because while you may be Limbu, you are not Sunwar, or Rai, or Ghorkali, or Tamang, and there exists no such ethnicity as 'Kyrati'.”

Sarnai drew a measuring tape from a pocket before she continued, “You are American, and you Americans have too many conversations about colour. My father was Kazakh, and my mother was Khalkh, and I am not Kyrati, but in America I am all these things and more, and so are you, because we are everything that is not white, and to Americans there are only either white people or persons of colour, and everyone from everywhere is one or the other, and whichever they are, they are all of that. Arms out, boy.” She measured from his wrist first to his armpit, then to his collar.

“But even in America this is not true. I see on my feed what white Irish and white Italian Bostonians tweet about one another, and in Boston there is no more white than in Kyrat there are persons of colour. The only meaningful conversation to be had about colour here will be about how I dress you to make you a beacon of peace and unity. Arms down.” She measured from his shoulder to wrist where it hung by his side.

“Also, The Dress is blue, but it is also a shot weave of both black and gold, so you are all wrong.”

“ _We_  are all wrong?”

“You, internet, world, everyone. Should have listened to me, I tweeted this weeks ago.”

Ajay scoffed, and turned on his heel, saying over his shoulder, “Case in point. I think we’ve talked enough, and I’ll stick with my own jacket.”

Sarnai shouted after him, “Diversity, and harmony, boy! That’s what you need to embody, and you need to be comfortable with ambiguity to put those at ease who fear that you don’t rule in their interest. You need my shot silks and embroidery to say that for you. You need a new jacket.”

Ajay stopped dead in his tracks, remembering that king or not, he wasn’t looking to fan any flames just now, neither with the whole country nor one old woman. “Look. I’ll be back, and we can talk more about this later. I still have Shanath arena to explain away to some aid workers this evening. But I will come back.”

Sarnai turned back to her embroidery, seemingly mollified. Ajay saw the opportunity to put a door between himself and the madwoman, and seized upon it. Once safely outside, and striding with purpose and haste away from the sartorial powder keg, he allowed himself a moment of abject self-pity. Then he drew from one of his ‘fabulous pouches’ the phone an ersatz palace official had sourced for him, and browsed the hashtags _#thedress_ and _#shotsilk_. There was only one tweet tagging both, and it contained no other text. _@metasartoriality_ ’s tone was decidedly smug and now very familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sarnai lists a whole bunch of ethnicities in her rant - Khalkh is the dominant ethnic group in Mongolia, Kazakh is a minority there. All the others mentioned are native to the Himalayan region occupied by Nepal - as we are assuming Kyrat is located somewhere around there, we're assuming it has a similar makeup. Kirat (with and "i") is a category encompassing several small ethno-cultural groups in the region, the Limbu and Sunwar among them. Not to be confused with Kyrat, the fictional nation - but presumably the inspiration for its name. Wiki for more information.

**Author's Note:**

> Subsequent chapters will be added as they are written. The cast includes some OCs. Concrit is welcomed and will be accepted graciously!


End file.
